


my tether, my anchor

by kalypsobean



Category: New Amsterdam (TV 2018)
Genre: Coping Mechanisms, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 14:58:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19253509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean





	my tether, my anchor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios/gifts).



It would have been easier if it was a licensing board review. Helen had been gentle with him, Iggy could see that, but it was just harder that way, coming from someone he saw nearly every day and who felt he needed to be carefully led through the inquiry. Perhaps if it wasn't someone who knew him so well, who could give examples of his own behaviour and twist him up until he wasn't sure what he's even admitting to. 

Then again, he had resisted it before it was in Sharpe's hands, so perhaps it wouldn't have been easier at all.

 

"You haven't eaten," Martin says, and that's when he realises the kids have left the table and he hasn't heard a word they said about their day. It's not a fact that Martin's stating, it's a question, a hundred questions and a thousand hurts and he can't. He just can't. He pulls his hand out from under Martin's and fidgets instead, his fingers interlaced between his palms until he flexes and presses his palms together instead, until he slides his hands apart enough to fold his fingers between his palms again.

"My mind's still at work. Sorry." No, he doesn't want his plate reheated, no, he doesn't want to talk, no, he doesn't want to watch a movie, no, he's fine. Martin leaves him there, sitting at the dining room table with his now-cold vegetables. He can't bring himself to feel badly for it; he's too numb, too lost.

He sleeps on the couch and goes to work without even seeing Martin, and knowing he's slid backwards on his promise to be better at home isn't enough to make him feel.

 

~*~

 

The good thing about it being internal, if there's anything good about an inquiry at all, is that it's promptly abandoned when things go haywire. Since chaos is something of a normal event around New Amsterdam, there's a sense that if it's paperwork and it's not done, and nobody comes looking for it, it can stay that way. It's a less than ideal arrangement, of course, and not one he advocates, except today. Today it's comforting; today it's _nobody is going to know_ and _it won't be in the file_ and _nothing has to change_. Today it gets him through sessions, when he reaches out and then curls his fingers and digs his nails into his trousers to stop himself, when his knee starts shaking and his heart aches for some kid he's never met before and he doesn't know how he'll ever get to really understand now.

Today he turns off notifications on his emails and his phone, because if he doesn't see them he doesn't have to look at them and doesn't have the moment of wondering whether Helen has had time to write up the interview. He knows how it works; even though the report was withdrawn, the easiest way everyone could agree on after things had turned, he still has to read the transcript, still has to sign that it's accurate, still has to relive disappointing Helen. The first time he'd experienced that raw, crushing, airless feeling that went with that was less about her and more about the rushing, drowning feeling that came with what she said and what it meant, that he'd _hurt_ someone, maybe hundreds of someones, all without meaning to.

Today the silence of his pager is a blessing twice over. He can't hurt anyone in crisis, and he doesn't need to start fixing it while he doesn't know how he can.

 

He leaves on time, forgoing his usual end-shift rounds and leaving his Zen garden with furrows haphazardly raked in. There's some novelty in that it's early enough that it's still twilight. The streetlights are not yet on but the occasional headlights do catch his eye as he walks, the contrast not enough to blind him. He follows the route home almost on autopilot; he has to check for his train as he normally catches a later, quieter one that doesn't make him wish he chose dealing with traffic instead. Even for all the shuffling around to let people on and off, the swaying and stop-start, his brain just can't turn off, still endlessly going through what could have happened, what could still happen, what about this person, what about that one.

 

He doesn't even notice the house is quiet until he goes to get himself a drink and sees plates and cutlery out, and somehow clicks that there's only two of everything. He checks the kids' rooms and then around the house, but it's neat and empty.

"Where are the kids?" he says when he finds Martin in the kitchen. He's not sure how he missed Martin before, especially since their place isn't that big. He leans in, sliding his hands under Martin's shirt only to find skin that is cool to the touch, but his back is solid and for a moment, the hug is comfort enough. 

"Sleepovers," Martin says. "And that was an effort." He leans back for a moment and then wiggles, which means it's time to let go; Iggy is bereft, adrift again. "Bring the plates?"

As if the suggestion of food had magicked it into being, his brain registers warmth and smell and a brown paper bag on the counter. Martin was cold because he'd brought takeout.

"Sure," he says, and tries not to think about how takeout generally corresponds with serious discussions he doesn't necessarily want to have.

 

But Martin is quiet as they eat; the meal feels a bit like a treat he doesn't deserve, even though it's not something they don't usually eat, more that he didn't have to make it, that he's eating it without it being reheated, that he's eating it on the same couch he slept on and he can feel Martin right there next to him, that they bump into each other and he doesn't have to apologise for it. 

The sandwich is cut in halves and Martin had spread fries out on the plate like it would have been if they'd eaten out instead, so once Iggy's half of the sandwich is gone he's left with sweet potato with randomly spread melted cheese and small crumbs of pita and onion, and he doesn't know why it smells so good even though it's nearly cold. Martin brushes the rest of his fries onto Iggy's plate and that's when he realises he's so hungry because he hadn't eaten last night or all day, really, not counting the breakfast that was more like a snack.

"I've been distracted again, haven't I?" he says, and he feels more than sees Martin nod, and he's also not sure when he'd pressed himself up quite that close that Martin's head was on his shoulder in the first place. "I'm sorry," he says, even though he isn't yet, isn't even close to processing enough to be sorry, because saying it is acknowledging that his actions have caused something he didn't want.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Martin says.

"I don't think I'm ready to." He could be, maybe, but it wouldn't be the kind of conversation to have with Martin, one where he's reassuring someone else rather than himself, where he has answers rather than needing to ask the question.

"I'm here, you know that, right?" And he hates himself that Martin had to ask. 

"I know," he says, which isn't enough. _I don't have the words for it_ would sound trite and wrong, _I was almost fired_ is too alarming, but he can't say nothing and then go with that later. "I just need-" he says instead, and he doesn't know what he needs to say it: contact, touch, comfort.

Martin pulls the blanket over their laps and reaches for the remote.

"Can we just stay like this?" Iggy says, finally.

"Sure," Martin says, and it's only then that he realises Martin already knew, that he'd said it with his hands, with his shoulder, with his side, and Martin understood it without him needing to find the words.


End file.
